When the four candlesighs sped under the ocean's current, they didn't know that the rain that fell like a mist-like veil over the entire land melded to the sea, giving birth to new waves and new spray, mixing with sea foam and long dead merpeople.
They snuffed out, then drifted into the mist and up up up into the clouds, where the humidity and pressure pushed them down down down into the lush emereld green patch of moss in Ireland, so damp that when they stepped down onto it, the water pushed through their toes like a sponge, sucking back down into the earth when their little feet stepped away.
The teeny white flowers that sprinkled the dew smiled up at them with trusting, bright faces, and they were careful not to squish their innocence as they waited, hopeful for a day when they could reach towards the sunshine and stretch in the warmth.
The candlesighs (or candlesnuffs, as it were now) slinked around the craggy volcanic rock that bit into the side of the land, and the fish in the pond way down below were just flashes of silver in twilight. The sky was made of amethyst and smokey quartz, giving way to Pink Sky at Night.
The candlesnuffs sighed with pleasure and watched the sun set, then rise, as a kelpie skimmed the ocean from which they had just come, and a selkie rested in the sand.
Tell me, here, that there are no unicorns.